Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise

As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.

I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none.